Friendship Park by Krista Schlyer

There are two old men in the gallery, each trapped in ink pigment beneath unframed canvas. The first man I see is white-bearded and stares through the dark blue concrete pillars separating him from the American behind the camera. He’s aware he is being photographed, but there is no smile on his face. His brown eyes are soft and sad. He wears a cream-colored cowboy hat and holds a beat up six-string. His hand is blurry, so I know he’s playing a song.

Behind him, another man plucks the red, white, and blue strings of an upright bass. He, too, wears a cowboy hat adorned with a large silver hatband. He looks at something on the other side of the fence. Perhaps a family member meeting him there to share stories of the American Dream.

In the distance on the Mexican side of the beach, a shadowed man and child stand closely together and observe the musicians. I’d like to think they’re enjoying the tunes, Ranchera or Musica Fronteriza maybe a Corrido about the singer’s lover, although it’s more likely they are there to holds hands with someone dear through the small openings in the 15-foot wall.

The sun bleaches the sky white, and the shore dissolves into the absent horizon. The men are at Friendship Park on the border of Tijuana, Mexico and San Diego, California. The land was once a symbol of unity between two nations and their inhabitants. In the seventies, First Lady Nixon cut a ceremonial ribbon and a barbed wired fence and officially designated the spot as one of celebration.

Now it’s just another division.